


there is duality

by Sar_Kalu



Series: Good Omens Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Grief and Loss, Hyde Park 1976, M/M, Oceans, Pre-Omens fic, Pre-Romance, Storms, comfort food for the soul, get a clue lads, part one is fluff, part two is angst, part two is post-apocawasn't, pining fic, the sea, two very different fics, which can also be comfort food for the soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Part One: Crowley invites Aziraphale out to a free concert in Hyde Park to see his latest favourite band.Part Two: Aziraphale receives a letter with some long awaited news





	1. Hyde Park, 1976

It was hot: incredibly so for London; and though Crowley had, once very long ago, spent forty years wandering a desert trying to tempt a bunch of runaway once-slaves (not that he disapproved of them running away, Crowley had strong feelings about slavery and none of them were positive), that didn’t mean that Crowley was in any way prepared for London to be overtaken by a heatwave that racked up temperatures in excess of thirty degrees celsius for much of the July/August period. And while September seemed to be cooler, it was not by much. Indeed, it seemed as though the whole of the city of London was sweltering in the stifling heat and pools of their own uncomfortable sweat.

Of course, with Crowley’s more serpentine nature, what with him actually being a demonic serpent, he didn’t actually feel the heat as badly as the humans, who reeled, almost drunk from the unseasonable warmth, from building to building in an attempt to escape the heat. At times even, Crowley had taken to long slow moments where he sprawled across his enormous king-sized bed in his flat, the windows and curtains thrown wide open, and lazed for _hours_ in the summer sun: both in human and snake forms.

But September had brought a different kind of fever to London; no less fervent or heated, though infinitely more enthusiastic. 

Hyde Park was hosting a free concert for all ages and Crowley had sauntered in, with the aid of a few demonic miracles, and taken up a decent bit of space just off to the side, but within clear view of the stage. There had been a multitude of acts already, but the headliners, fresh of the back of their UK leg of their new tour, would be performing soon.

And Crowley couldn’t wait. The demon had even managed to con Aziraphale in attending the concert with him, though given by the angels distraction for most of that day, Crowley was beginning to wonder if he’d be turning up at all. There had been something dazed about Aziraphale’s expression when Crowley had gone to demand his presence, that Crowley had very nearly asked him what was the matter. Except that demons don’t ask people what was wrong - they _caused_ something to be wrong; though Crowley had long since abandoned all attempts to mess with Aziraphale. It made the angel pout something terrible and then there’d be a squeezing in Crowley’s chest that tasted vaguely of guilt and really, he needed none of it. It just wasn’t worth the effort.

A flash of white out the corner of his eye had Crowley’s head snapping up and an unconscious, yet very faint, smile turned his lips upwards in welcome as he spotted Aziraphale coming towards him, his head turning this way and that as he tried to spot Crowley in the multitudes of people that swirled around the base of the stage. Crowley stood up and raised an arm.

“Angel!” Crowley called out over the hubbub of the gathered crowds, waving one languid arm in attempt to garner Aziraphale’s attention, “over here! I saved you a seat,” Crowley added, trying to get Aziraphale to hurry up, as the angel tended to run on his own time; as could be seen by his constantly out-of-date clothing and fashion tastes.

Today, Aziraphale was dressed in full-length if lightweight linen trousers and his only true concession towards the heat was the lack of his cream jacket that he normally wore over his vest and button down shirt. A shirt that was currently rolled to his elbows, displaying creamy forearms that had been freckled and ever-so-slightly coloured from the pervasive sunshine that radiated down from the heavens. With his white-blond hair, Aziraphale looked particularly angelic as he made his way over to Crowley’s position on the sprawling lawns of Hyde Park. 

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted his friend, eyes shining bright in the late summer light. “Beautiful day isn’t it? Still very warm for London though,” the angel added, his words very fast and nearly tripping over themselves to get out; it was as though Aziraphale was nervous, though for why, Crowley couldn’t have told you. Aziraphale paused in taking his seat as he produced a collapsable umbrella from one of his pants’ pockets, he didn’t hold it out to Crowley, but instead wrung it between his slightly shaking hands as he looked at Crowley, who was once again splayed out on a low-slung lawn chair, his long legs splayed inelegantly before him, as if Crowley didn’t quite know how to make them behave or contain themselves. 

Aziraphale abruptly sat, his prim posture hampered by the relaxed style of the lawn chair, and thrust the umbrella at Crowley, “here, I brought you an umbrella, well, it’s for both of us, but I know you’ve been here a while and I wouldn’t want you to get heatstroke, I just heard on the radio that it’s a terrible condition,” here Aziraphale faltered in the face of Crowley’s increasing incredulity, the umbrella was drawn back into Aziraphale’s lap and he folded in his lap over the umbrella that Crowley stared at as if he didn’t quite know what it was, “a lot of people have been affected this summer, would you believe? It’s really very serious,” Aziraphale justified, his shirt collar felt too tight for his neck and he avoided Crowley’s gaze. He felt stripped bare without his jacket, but he had been overheated in it, it had been sensible to discard it; and yet, he felt unbearably bare beneath Crowley’s eyes. 

Crowley, who had indeed been lazing in the sun for far longer than any doctor would recommend, gave a languid shrug, unconcerned. “I’m a demon, angel, we don’t suffer from heatstroke,” he drawled, sinking further into his lawn chair and spreading his legs further out, as if in invitation. Though to what Aziraphale refused to speculate. “Besides,” here Crowley’s face expressed devious delight, “I’m well hydrated,” and before Aziraphale could ask him to clarify that bewildering assertion, Crowley produced a bottle of white wine from beside his chair and held it up, the neck of the bottle caught between two long fingers while the body hung parallel to the back of Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale stared, momentarily flustered by the casual strength of Crowley’s fingers - although he didn’t know why ~~(in actual fact, he _did_ know, he just refused to admit it to himself)~~ \- before tearing his eyes away.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale muttered beneath his breath, feeling heat creep under his collar and pooling in his cheeks, “fine,” his voice cracked and Aziraphale quickly repeated himself, more firmly: “fine. It’s fine.”

Crowley blinked languidly, “what’s fine?”

“The wine,” Aziraphale said, “the wine is fine- _will_ be fine, I imagine,” he coughed lightly and tried to relax even as he was very aware of how red his cheeks were and his very close one of Crowley’s knees were. Aziraphale could reach out and touch it, without leaning, that’s how close that bony, angular knee was. So close, and yet, Aziraphale thought as he cast a sidelong glance at Crowley who was unstopping the wine and producing fine, fluted wine glasses from the ether, it was also so far away, they might have been on opposite sides of the world. 

“It’s a good vintage,” Crowley told the angel, taking a sip as he handed Aziraphale his own glass, “crisp and light, faintly fruity, not too dry or sweet.”

“Sound’s wonderful,” Aziraphale muttered into the mouth of his glass. It indeed smelt wonderful; but then, Crowley had excellent taste in wine.

Crowley reached over and took the umbrella from Aziraphale’s lap, unconscious of his fingers that barely grazed the angels upper thighs; the way Aziraphale tensed momentarily, his eyes wide with shock and no small amount of desire. “Suppose I should use this though,” Crowley muttered, acting as though it was some great chore, even though his chest was warm in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with the late summer sun high above, “seeing as you went out of your way to bring it for me,” here Crowley cast a sideways glance at Aziraphale, eyes barely visible behind his glasses, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “you old worrywart.”

“Good,” Aziraphale yipped, high pitched in surprise and quickly turned his face to the stage. Crowley had smiled at him. Crowley had invited him out, had plied him with a truly excellent vintage of wine, was now using an umbrella he didn’t need purely because Aziraphale had brought it for him, had even saved the Angel a seat and must have fought off more than a few people in order to keep ahold of it, if the crowds of people that flowed around them were any indication. 

Ignoring Aziraphale’s weirdness, Crowley settled back into his seat, the umbrella propped indolently over one shoulder, shading Aziraphale more than the demon, but that was more a matter of how the sunlight fell than anything to do with Crowley ~~(or so he told himself)~~. The angel had one clenched fist pressed tightly to his thigh, the fingers curled white as if restraining Aziraphale from doing or saying something. Crowley felt something lodge in his belly, did… did Aziraphale not want to be here?

When Crowley asked as such, Aziraphale turned around in shock, “of course I wish to be here,” Aziraphale protested a bit too loudly, “we so rarely go to concerts and shows that _you_ enjoy, dear, I’m truly interested in uh the person we are watching today.” 

Aziraphale coloured at his stammered explanation, but truly, how could Crowley expect him to remember the name of the band they were here to see, when all Aziraphale could remember from the afternoon that he had stormed into Aziraphale’s bookshop ranting about bands and music and _just go with me, angel, please_ , was how the demon had been framed by sunlight that poured down from windows and through swirling dust motes that glittered gold all about Crowley’s face and shoulders, his eyes shining gold in that early summer light. Aziraphale couldn’t remember anything about that day, but that moment; not even what they’d later eaten at the Ritz, if they had even _been_ to the Ritz for dinner. 

Crowley tilted his head to the side, “Queen,” he told Aziraphale with exasperated fondness. “The band is called Queen, remember? I told you all about them. The Bentley’s been playing nothing but their music for _months_.”

Aziraphale twitched, shoulders pulling back slightly as he drew himself upright, “I knew that,” the angel lied, trying to remember what Crowley had told him about the performers. “Franky Mercury, right?”

“ _Freddie Mercury_ , angel,” Crowley corrected sharply, eyes like bronze blades behind his glasses that slipped just low enough down his thin, straight nose so the demon could stare over the rim at Aziraphale, who’s mouth twitched, unable to help the amusement he felt whenever Crowley corrected him about something the demon loved.

“Of course, Freddie Mercury,” Aziraphale apologised between sips of wine; it truly was a lovely day. Hyde Park had never looked so green, nor had love and happiness sung so strongly between people. This Queen, Freddie, truly must be a unifying force among the humans. 

Crowley huffed, “he’s like the Oscar Wilde of music, angel,” and Aziraphale, who rather knew Oscar Wilde better than he thought Crowley did, blinked in surprise.

“Oscar Wilde?” Aziraphale queried.

Crowley barked a sudden laugh, “yes, angel,” and Crowley cut him a sharp smiled glance, “Oscar Wilde; I know how much you love Oscar’s works. Freddie’s just as amazing, I promise,” Crowley assured him with a thin lipped, easy smile, head tilted back to bare the long column of his throat to the sky. Comfortable in a way that Crowley rarely allowed himself to be.

Aziraphale hummed, Crowley was right, of course, Aziraphale had _loved_ Oscar Wilde, did still love him; but then, Oscar had been such a dear fellow, and such a beautiful writer; truly, in ways that Aziraphale still felt unable to say, he missed Oscar, loved him just a bit more than Aziraphale usually loved humans, though not so much as he loved Crowley. 

“Groovy,” Aziraphale smiled, remembering the word to mean approval, though with how fast language changed these days, Aziraphale often found himself as out of date with his slang as he did with his fashion; but not books though. Books _never_ went out of fashion.

Crowley twitched, vaguely offended, “Freddie’s not groovy, angel,” he grumbled, “he’s bloody rock and roll.”

 _And you love him_ , Aziraphale realised with slight envy, as a man in white jeans and a white singlet bounded onto the stage, one hand thrust into the air triumphantly, the other grasping the microphone, drawing it into him; behind him, two men picked up guitars and another took a seat behind a drum kit. The crowd was screaming… and Crowley, Crowley’s face was shining much as it had that day in the bookshop and Aziraphale had never seen anything so glorious. 


	2. South Downs, undetermined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm changeth the land

There was something rugged and wild about the ocean in winter. The way the light filtered through cold atmosphere leeched the shining colour from the waves, sucked the warmth from rock and stone, and turned the world a bleaker, colder place. No less beautiful for the lack of the summer sun, the ocean crashed heavy against the land, beating a tattoo for the storm that threatened to break over head. Clouds pregnant with heavy rain boiled black over head, casting the seaside into dark shadow; though the sun remained, peaking through fingers, reassuring it its subtle vibrance.

Aziraphale had found that he enjoyed long, slow, rambling walks along the esplanade: the oceans a sheer drop off to one side and rows the pretty houses, brightly painted all colours of the rainbow, to the other; human life, bracketed by untameable wild and ordered civilisation. 

About halfway down the esplanade, there was a jetty made of pitted wood and concrete that jutted out over the water on cement pontoons; it was loosely held in place, free to surge up and down with the tide that rolled in and out each day. A tide that swelled the bay to cover the pebbled beaches before it receded once more, revealing rock pools at the base of the cliffs. It was here, on the jetty, that the fisherfolk would gather in laughing, cheerful crowds; here they would either drop their lines into relatively calm waters of the bay, or clamber into little white boats that were streaked red with rust that looked almost like blood, the paint bubbled and chipped from the wind and rain.

Over time, Aziraphale had come to see the way that the ocean reflected the ever changing moods of the weather and he could stand and watch the ever-shifting colour changes, mutable and mercurial, for hours; an air of melancholy drawn about him like a cloak. Time had moved on, as it was want to do. Things that had once seemed everlasting had now changed and the world no longer looked as it once had. Where there had once been comfort in the familiar, there was now an uncertainty brought on by knowledge that this chapter of his long, long life was coming to a close. The immutable facts of Aziraphale’s life was that nothing was constant - bar Crowley; and even he was as fickle as the winds of change at times. Crowley enjoyed the influx of times steady march on, but Aziraphale who took comfort in the stationary, the unchanging stoicism of his bookshop and friendship with Crowley, found it harder to accept change when it occurred. And oh, but this was a great and terrible change, unstayed by angelic miracle or demonic intervention; a life lived long and well, but now. Now, a storm rolled in, heavy with rain, a deluge poured out over him until Aziraphale felt like he was drowning. Unanchored in the rush of time that flowed ever onwards.

A long thin dark figure appeared at his elbow and Aziraphale turned his head slightly in acknowledgement of his presence; “Crowley,” and Aziraphale’s voice shook, watery and uncertain, upon the demons name - a plea for succour, the paper in his pocket a burning brand of weighted grief and sorrow.

“Angel,” and here Crowley wound an arm about Aziraphale’s waist, drawing the angel into his embrace, knowing that Aziraphale’s emotions weltered when bad things happened to him or people he loved. It had not been from dislike or disdain that the angel had holed himself up in a bookshop from the 1850′s on- it had been a form of self protection. A barrier against loss and grief. You cannot live six thousand years and never know sorrow. You cannot live without love in your life; but oh, the heartache that comes from knowing and loving. The ache of missing someone gone from your life, knowing you’ll likely never see them again, for they have moved _on_. That is a pain unique to itself; though perhaps it was not true that Aziraphale would never see them again. They would be in Heaven, together once more; Aziraphale had been selfish in ensuring that. Not that Crowley minded. It was what they deserved. “Are you-” and Crowley couldn’t help but break off; old habits died hard, even after forty years of cohabitation and retirement from their places in Heaven and Hell, and he still struggled with speaking his love for Aziraphale, preferring as he had with the last six thousand years to pepper his actions with a love that spoke it’s own language to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, smiled briefly, a melancholic turn of lips that never reached his eyes; before he then returned his gaze to the ebb and flow of the oceans tide, counting waves that matched his solemn breaths; the slate grey of the water gleaming gemstone bright whenever the sun’s light broke free of the gathering clouds. “Brian sent a letter,” there was aching loss in his voice, “Anathema and Newt…”

Crowley tightened his arms about his angel and dug his chin into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Anchoring himself, his angel, to the present; Crowley might be a demon, but that did not mean he didn’t feel. Heartache painted his insides at the thought of the bright, vivacious young women he’d once known no longer being a telephone call away; even Newt, bumbling and generally useless as he was, would be missed. “We knew it was coming, angel,” Crowley said softly, voice hoarse, “they were old; and Newt…” and Crowley swallowed thickly, choking out “Newt was very sick.” Memory of a wizened face drawn tight in pain, still smiling kindly whenever Aziraphale and Crowley had visited; hands like paper, thin and brittle boned, had been kind enough to reach out, soothing the pain from their brows, chiding them to remember that these things happened to humans; to not sorrow too badly when he left this life. That he loved them. Anathema at his side, no less frail for her better health, crying softly and steadily; Crowley wasn’t surprised in the slightest that she had followed her husband, he only hoped that their children had been there. That they hadn’t been alone.

“I know,” Aziraphale breathed out, his voice cracking on the vowels; the words he spoke snatched by the breeze that carded chilly fingers through his white-blonde hair. “I know.”

“You couldn’t have kept healing them,” Crowley added, pain a lash across his back, because he wished it had been different, he wished that Aziraphale could have continued blessing a little more life into Newt’s eyes and skin, could have prevented Anathema’s loss as well… “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” was pressed out between numb lips and Aziraphale leant back further into Crowley’s embrace.”I just wish I could have done more,” Aziraphale mourned, sadness like miasma oozing from his very pores. It choked them both; snuffed their usual demeanours until they were but pale shadows haunting a seaside esplanade.

Crowley pressed in tighter, a long black line wound tight about the angel’s lightly coloured figure, their hair blending and tangling together in the slight breeze. “You did plenty, angel,” Crowley soothed Aziraphale as best he could, hands running over tightly compressed arms, rubbing a little heat into Aziraphale’s bones, even as Crowley’s eyes burned for trying not to cry; there was something about an angels grief that made even demon’s weep. Or perhaps it was because it was _Aziraphale who grieved_ and it was Crowley who wept with him; mourning loss together, never alone, even after six thousand years of love and living. 

“They were important to me,” Aziraphale sighed, turning in Crowley’s tight grip just enough to press his chin to Crowley’s forehead, breathing the demon in; faint sulphur and sweet spices and a taint like hearth fire filling his nostrils. Crowley smelt of home and it loosened something knotted and tight in Aziraphale’s chest. Tears thick and viscous burned their way down his cheeks and his throat swelled to the point of pain. Aziraphale shook, trembled, threatened to shake apart if it was not for Crowley wound about his arms, his back, pressed in tight and bracing the angel with strength unselfishly given; holding Aziraphale together when the angel could do no more than cry.

“You’re important too,” Crowley mouthed into Aziraphale’s jacket, lips brushing over scratchy wool - the _to me_ remained unsaid; and yet, though Aziraphale had not actually heard the words that Crowley had breathed or felt the air that the words had shaped against his jacket, Aziraphale knew better than anything else in the world, that those two little words _to. me_ were forever voiced in the vibrations of their shared embrace, in the spaces between their lips, in the pulse of their hearts in their chests. 

_I know_ , Aziraphale didn’t say, because this wasn’t the moment for confessions, for assertions, for reassurances; he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything less than comforted, right there on the esplanade, over looking the slate grey sea and high above dark clouds roiled in mimicry of the storm that Aziraphale held in his chest and Crowley soothed with warmth and love. Loss was a terrible thing, but it was made a little ore bearable in the arms of one who loved you.

It would be okay, Aziraphale knew, the ocean was ever changing and even the darkest storm-tossed waves would smooth out to glittering gem-bright waters when the sun shone high over head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to welnoc's prompt (part the second): "Good omens fic prompts: “I saved you a seat” “You’re important too” “I brought you an umbrella”"  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/) for writing angst again.


End file.
